A Hunting We Will Go
by Chunky Tiger
Summary: I. "Before he was Voldemort, he was Tom Riddle: and before he was Tom Riddle, he was a boy looking for a father who hadn't wanted him at first."
1. Pockets of Life

**Summary:** I. "Before he was Voldemort, he was Tom Riddle: and before he was Tom Riddle, he was a boy looking for a father who hadn't wanted him at first."

**NOTES:** Before we begin, I would like to take this time and tell you a few things: first of all, this will not end up in a "Harry turns evil/powerful/dark/sadist/creature that no one has heard of" nor a "Voldemort turns out to be the good guy, and super, cuddly nice" sort of thing. Nor is Dumbledore the awful, horrible person people like to portray him as. Nor will Snape suffer through the indignation of being called "Sevvy". Serious beans there. And also, it will take a while until Harry shows up in this. You'll know when. But he will show up. Eventually. He's persistent like that. He's like that itch that will not go away. Ever. No matter how much cream is applied.

Also, yes, this is something along the lines of hey, what if there was something fishy with the Riddle family, and Voldemort's dad man's up and gets him? thing. Almost sure it hasn't been done before. Almost. If it has, I apologize. It came to me in a fit of insomnia. Whoop.

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><p>.<p>

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**A Hunting We Will Go**  
>Pockets of Life<p>

_A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,_  
><em>Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go!<em>  
><em>A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,<em>  
><em>We'll catch a fox and put him in a box,<em>  
><em>And then we'll let him go!<em>

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~ v ~

There were little pockets of life in the otherwise bleak, abyssal block known as _Wool's __Orphanage_, despite what its inhabitants and keepers would have one believe. And, in the spirit of going against the assumed, there were even more pockets of life then one could have possibly imagined if they were to see the well-cleaned, but drab and dim-lit halls of _Wool's_. It was a good thing that Tom knew otherwise - he had found one of those rare pockets and coveted it with a greedy heart. He refused to end up some dull, boring automaton that was the fate of most children who weren't adopted (and in these times, adoption was a rare thing).

But unlike the other children, unlike Billy Stubbs and Dennis Bishop, Tom Riddle had a father.

See, Tom had a father out there - in that big, wide world - who was undoubtedly looking for his long, lost son whose mischievous mother had run off to keep from him. Somewhere out there, was a Riddle Sr., searching for Tom, and one day he would fine him, and he would no longer have to fight for his pockets of life. But until then, he would fight tooth and nail to keep the other, soulless children from intruding on his niches.

One such niche was out in the bare-bones play-yard of _Wool's_, near the back of the rusted chain-link fence that was overgrown with weeds, ivy, and pricker-bushes. Tom had found the spot a year ago, when he was but five-years, when he had ran after his sheepskin-ball when it went rolling among the prickers. The other children would never have gone into the sharp, tangled mess to retrieve anything - and they never had. He had crawled into the sharp mess, thorns and prickers leaving little, red scratches all over his cheeks and bare arms, but he had found his ball! And he had found so much more.

Among the pricker-bushes and shadowed canopy of ivy, he had stumbled upon a little clearing where a few daisies pushed there way up through the dust and dirt. He had only ever seen the fake, sad and plastic flowers Mrs. Cole liked to place in horribly plastic vases at random intervals around the mess hall and her office, in order to give the place some semblance of life. It had never worked. But here, in the little nest, Tom had seen his first real, living flower among forgotten toys and chain-link. He visited the flowers everyday, because they gave him hope. Hope that someday, somehow, he would get out of _Wool's_.

Tom nurtured the daisies. It wasn't hard work, but it was hard smuggling small portions of water out to them when there was the rare dry spell.

Sometimes Mrs. Cole would catch him and forbid him from going outside for a few days. It was torture, but when that happened, he would go to another pocket of life.

Yesterday, he had been caught in the act of trying to get water to his daises when Mrs. Cole had spotted him, so today, Tom had to stay indoors. That was alright, though, since he would spend the time behind a bookshelf in the orphanage's meager library, which had once been dust-free and great, when _Wool's _had had the funds to keep it that way. Now, though, it was just a room filled with bookshelves and dusty, out-of-date texts. Some of the older children would use it for their classes with Martha, but Tom wasn't old enough for the classes of life-skills and history, just for his letters and writing. He had read bits and pieces of the books in the library, but that wasn't why he went there. Well, sometimes he went there just to read. Sometimes.

Today Tom dressed and didn't bother to put his shoes on like his roommate, Billy, did. Billy had recently gotten a rabbit with a twitching, velvet nose that sat in a deep, wooden box at the end of Billy's bed. Martha had said her name was Flower Jane, but Billy called her Skins, and Tom called it Thing. He glared at Thing as it scratched at the bottom of its box, staring up at him with dark, beady eyes and buttoned up his shirt.

"I heard you got in trouble yesterday, Tommy," Billy chirped, twisting Tom's name into that horrible, horrible nickname. Did he mention he hated being called 'Tommy'? It was demeaning.

He scowled, surprisingly well for a child of six, "So what if I did?"

"You get in trouble a lot, and at this rate, Mrs. Cole is going to start locking you up in the Room, not just banning you from the yard," the boy said happily as he left their room.

Despite his best efforts, Tom could not prevent a shudder at the mention of the Room. The "Room" was just that, a room, but it was a horrid, wretched room with no windows, no light, and only a single, wooden chair in the cold expanse of brick. It was reserved for the worst of the children. For those who stole, lied, or hurt one another. To Mrs. Cole, sometimes there need be no proof of the transgression, only rumor of it. Or the conception of it in her mind. But Mrs. Cole would never put Tom in the room; she thought him the most "handsome, darling thing ever". And so did Martha.

He had his way with them. The ladies.

Tom smiled to himself at his little joke, and scuttled out into the gloomy hallway, down the stairs (careful to avoid the fifth one down, as it tended to give an inhumane shriek if stepped on), and toward the library. He pushed the stubborn door open, flinching at the dry squeak from the rusted hinges, and stepped into the poorly lighted room of learning. Cold swept up his legs when his bare feet touched the dead, dread wood. He had always felt that the library was thrice-cursed. It might as well have been, considering how much the other children avoided it.

He made his way to his niche, which was behind a bookshelf that was almost - but not quite, which was why it was so hidden like his daises - pressed against the wall. But not quite. There was just enough room for him to squeeze, however painfully it was for him, between the shelf and the wall until he reached a rather strange place.

It was a door; a small, wooden door, that, thankfully, opened with a push and not a pull. He wormed down until his bum touched the cold floor, nudged the door open with his foot, and squirmed inside. Tom followed that up with an awkward bit of maneuvering so he could see where he was headed.

The tunnel wasn't long, but it was filled with cobwebs and spiders that might have been dangerous if he wasn't so non-threatening to the vapid little buggers.

It opened up into a little room, with a ceiling half as high as the others except for a small section that accommodated a regular-sized window. Cheerful, mid-morning light filtered through the dusty light, giving him a perfect view of the various odds and ends he had managed to gather, and had found, within his secret room. There had been an old, moth-eaten mattress that smelled faintly of cats, and a rickety chair with a matching table. Tom had added the paper, pens, snitched toys and dried daises to it.

Tom may not lead an exciting life, but he did his damnedest to make it seem so.

"What," he asked a little, faded wooden horse, "Should I do today?"

_Why_, Tom imagined the horse chattering back, _you should write a letter to your father. He must be worried, what with your mother stealing you away from him, only to leave you with nothing but his name. Yes! Write a letter, hey, and ask Mrs. Cole to send it to him. Better yet, ask Martha, she's more apt to do it._

He gave a small considering nod to the toy, and said, "Yes, of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Taking a seat on the rickety chair and selecting an almost whole piece of paper, and a pen, Tom began to write. Or, well, he would have, had he not gotten a glimpse of the most wonderful and unusual thing through his window. Jumping to his feet, he climbed on top of the table, and pressed his face the chilly glass. Through the dust and the fog from his breath, he could see the front yard of _Wool's_. And, walking up the yard, along the cobblestone path, was a man. Adoptions were unusual, and Tom couldn't help but wonder at the purpose of the man.

He could see no distinguishing features from the distance, but he could tell that the man was tall. And an adult with money, or status, despite the times.

Tom squinted imperiously, determined that this person had no good intentions, for _why_ would someone good and rich need to adopt? Or want to, for that matter?

But then, as things happened, the man got a little closer to _Wool's_, and Tom saw something in him. Something that was quite like himself. Was it the eyes, the ears, the nose, the mouth? The set of the jaw, the faint reproach in the brow? The hair, maybe? That this man clearly knew his own worth, and how to use it, perhaps? Was it how he walked? How his step spoke of his harsh nobility?

Or, maybe, Tom considered with a reasonable mind, it was all of that.

"Could it be?" he hissed to the horse, "Could it_ really_ be?"

_How should I know? I only know what you know!_ the horse neighed wittily, throwing back its little, wooden head.

Frowning, Tom turned to the tunnel, and went through the meticulous task of extracting himself from the little room (he figured it had once been a servant's room, when _Wool's_ had been some sort of manor). By the time he made it to Mrs. Coles' office and rid himself of dust and cobwebs, there was already a gathering of sorts around the door. News of an adult coming to the orphanage spread like a cold. Once one knew, everyone knew. But, unlike them, Tom knew what this adult was here for. He was here for Tom, because he was, without a doubt, Tom's father. He just knew it.

So let them suffer through their rumors, he thought, let them squirm, be jealous of him when the time came, because Tom was leaving _Wool's_, once and for all.

He was content with listening to their whispers and wonders about who would be chosen until Martha came and ushered them all into the mess hall, where the gentleman who had arrived would be able to get a basic impression of all the children (who were told to tidy their hair, fix their buttons, and get the wrinkles out of their skirts and trousers as best they could), and go from there.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Cole and the mysterious adult entered the hall.

"... they are all delightful children, I assure you, always on their best behavior," Mrs. Cole was saying, as if she wanted to tempt the man into adopting two or three instead of one.

The man waved a gloved hand, and spoke in a peculiarly accented tone, that seemed as though it originated from some foreign, past era, "Actually, madame, I was looking for a specific child."

"_Oh_? Well, in that case," the matron muttered, "Who are you looking for?"

Tom felt his heart tighten in his chest.

"She would have named him Tom. Thomas Riddle."

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong> BOOM. Cliffhanger. Aww yeah. And yes, I imagine that in his earliest years, when he was still a wee thing, Tommyboy would have been obsessive and crazy over having a daddy, but otherwise, a normal kid. Until the accidental magic started to happen, and when he started to realize that "_hey_, no one is coming for me. FUCK MY LIFE."

So, what did y'all think? Worth perusing?


	2. Little Glass Slippers

**Notes:** You people are fantastic and kind. How could I not be inspired to work on this? Thank you, really!

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**A Hunting We Will Go**  
>Little Glass Slippers<p>

_And then it dreams of pleasant things,_  
><em>Of fountains filled with fairy fish,<em>  
><em>And trees that bear delicious fruit,<em>  
><em>And bow their branches at a wish. <em>

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Tom supposed that he had an unrealistic fantasy about how the adoption process went, or, perhaps, he had too high hopes for a dramatic conclusion to his stay at _Wool's_.

He had almost expected the other children to protest, to claim they were him (even the girls, who could not possibly be him), and for there to be a great cacophony of moans and cries at the indignation that _he_ had a father, or even an angry huff would have made sense. Perhaps he had spent too much time anticipating the day his father came for him to be real about it; the actual process was dull. Terribly, horribly dull, and it made Tom ashamed of his wild expectations. After all, where were the protests? The other children, surely, couldn't be as complacent as they were being.

Were they really that molded into soulless automatons that they didn't even fight for a chance of life?

A shiver wracked his shoulders as he carefully laced his shoes, fingers shaking with nervousness. Nothing was like he had expected; sure, his father looked the part, but Tom had said maybe two, three words to the man before Mrs. Cole shooed him off to pack his meager collection of belongings with Martha. His hands were sweaty and his cheeks burned, plus, there was a discomforting sensation stirring in his stomach. Woozy with anticipation, with nerves, and a knot he couldn't quite place at first. Then he recognized it as a shameful fear. Once he brought it up in his mind, it refused to leave or loosen its hold on him. Painful and cruel, the idea was.

What if his father decided he didn't want Tom? What if he paused, half-way through signing papers, and determined that Tom wasn't worth it?

Tom flinched when Martha swooped down and gripped his shoulders tight in her hands. Her thin, light brow was drawn, and her expression serious as she wiped away the tears that had started to crawl down his cheeks. Martha's smile was precious and there was worry and reassurance in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh, Tom, it'll be alright, just you wait... he loves you, your father, I can tell. Despite not knowing a thing about you, he loves you," she whispered as one of her hands brushed through his hair, causing its waves to become curls, "And once he comes to know, he will love you even more. Just, just be yourself, be polite. Give it time. Alright, sweetie?"

He buried his face into her shoulder, and gripped the folds of her cotton blue dress tightly. Muffled, he asked, "You're sure?"

"Positive," Martha confirmed with a pat on the back, "Absolutely. Now, young man, promise me you'll be strong and practice your letters, no matter what, understand, and I'll take you to your father. He's likely finished with the papers, and Bertha - Mrs. Cole, will be fussy as a newborn if we take to long. So, will you promise me, Tom?"

Tom looked up at her, took a deep breath to school himself, and said with all the seriousness a child of six-years could muster, "I promise."

"Good," she mused with a nod, and helped him to his feet. She handed Tom his bag, filled with the clothes he had and the papers with his letters from class. There was, unknown to Martha, a few stolen trinkets and old toys he had snitched from the other children, but Martha need not know that. She would hate him, surely, and Tom, well, Tom was a little sentimental and didn't want a bitter parting with his only mother figure.

He would miss Martha, Tom decided as she lead him away from his room, despite having gotten a father. If only she could come with them, be his mother, and then he would have a perfect little family. But he knew that Martha would never leave the orphanage; he had heard her, once, speaking to Mrs. Cole about being unable to have children, and being unable to adopt because of money. He wasn't too sure about the being unable to have children, but he knew about being unable to adopt. It was the times, as the matron would say whenever an older child would have to be sent from the orphanage to face the world.

Martha squeezed his hand when they reached the door to Mrs. Cole's office, and whispered a soft, teary farewell before heading to mess hall where the other children were eating lunch.

Tom inhaled deeply and smoothed down his hair as best he could. His hand trembled as he reached out to take the cold, brass knob. The door opened with a quiet whine, and he stepped inside the dimly lit office, where he saw his father seated at the matron's desk, signing a paper with a sweeping flourish. The matron looked sharply in his direction, as if she expected a miscreant or some such, but her face smoothed when she saw who it was. At the soft beckoning of her hand, he stepped inside the office and shut the door with a push.

Mrs. Cole's office was stuffy and warm, and he felt a distinct dampness at his temples that made his hair stick sloppily to it. Tom thought he smelled cinnamon in the air, though he considered that he might just be imagining it. He took a seat on the stiff, wooden bench near the door as he waited for his father to finish up with the legal papers. He took the time to watch the man, who was oddly youthful and full of life, and apparently untouched by the hardships beginning to spread if his poise suggested anything. There appeared to be no end to the papers, which made Tom's spirit drop and the anticipation curl tighter in his gut.

Finally, _ finally_, after what felt like hours, but was surely only a few moments, Mrs. Cole handed over his birth documentations and other records concerning when he had had the flu, and that time he had slipped down the stairs and bruised his back. His father stood and held a hand out to the matron, who took it and said, sternly, "Take good care of Tom, Mr. Riddle. He's a good a boy as anyone could hope for."

His father held the file under his arm, and reassured the matron, "You need not fear, madame, he will have the best life I can grant him."

"You may go, now," Mrs. Cole told him, and then, she looked to Tom and said, "Good luck, Tom, and good-bye."

Tom smiled and set his eyes on his father - his _father_, by birth and now, by law! His _father_! Whatever nervous, traitorous feelings flushed from him when the man smiled back, never once betraying the dark secrets that might have existed in his heart. Wordlessly, Tom took his father's hand and allowed himself to be lead out of the bleak, dreary existence of _Wool's __Orphanage_. Now he could feel the spiteful stares and hateful jealousies of the other children at his back, the whispers and murmurs, despite them being in the hall, and far, far from him.

Oddly, it didn't hurt to leave the place that had always been his home.

The walk from the orphanage was silent apart from the outside noises and sound of polished shoes clicking on the stone walkway.

They reached the road, and Tom gave a start.

"You... you have an automobile?" he squeaked and shuffled uncomfortably when his father looked to him. Not only was it an automobile they were headed to, within the sleek, black and hooded vehicle, there was a driver in the front. His life was going to be different now, he realized for the first time. His life was going to be awfully different.

His father shook his head and corrected: "_We_ have an automobile, Thomas. What's mine is also yours, now."

"Truly?" Tom whispered with reverence, just to make sure that it wasn't some delusion or dream.

"Truly," his father confirmed, and opened the door, gesturing for Tom to get in. Tom did so, marveling at the leather seats and the sheer novelty of being in an automobile. Sure, he had _seen_ the contraptions going past _Wool's_, but he had never been in one. Or even close to one. It was just so _new._ New and wondrous. He took his pack from his back, and settled it on his lap as his father slid in to the seat next to him.

The driver turned round at the sound of the door shutting, and greeted Tom cheerfully before asking, "Home to Little Hangleton, Mr. Riddle?"

"Yes, please, I long for the countryside again, London is much too crowded," his father replied wearily, rubbing a gloved hand to his temple and giving a sidelong glance out the window.

For a while, Tom was content to marvel at the sight of buildings and people being passed from his window, but eventually the lack of conversation, the lack of noise, which was so common in the orphanage, began to wear at him. The hum and clank from the engine of the vehicle could only do so much for his discomfort. He shifted and fiddled in his seat, picked at his trousers, wiggled his toes in their coffins, and took a minute to look at every little knob and doohickey in the automobile until he couldn't stand it anymore.

It was awkward, he mused after consideration, for both of them.

Tom didn't know his father from slop, and his father only knew Tom's name.

'Twas a fair recipe for prolonged silence.

If Martha were there, she would know what to say, what to do to break the nervous strain of silence. There was one thing he could ask, but he didn't know if he had the courage to voice the question. On the other hand, it was all he could do to try and scare off the quiet terror lounging on his lap. He crossed his fingers for luck and prepared himself. He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with his father.

"Why - " he started, but choked up when his father glanced his way, and changed his question quickly after revisiting his promise to Martha, "Er, will I still get to study my letters, sir?"

Gut instinct told him that asking about his mother would be a rocky start.

"Of course," the man answered, one elegant brow frozen at an odd angle, "I'll begin arrangements for you to study your letters, as well as maths, sciences, and history, shortly after we arrive home. It might be a while, as your tutor will have to travel a long ways. But after that, I suppose I will allow him or her lodgings in our home."

Now there, there was something to talk about - "Home, sir? What is your, oh, er! Our home like?"

"Our home is a splendid manor overlooking the small settlement of Little Hangleton, and the open countryside surrounding it. The manor is upon a rolling, green hill, the property and home have been in the family for many, many generations; plenty of our ancestors lay buried under the greenery. It is a large manor in of itself, and I've been alone in it for some besides the hired help, since the death of my father - your grandfather," his father offered, sweeping hand gestures to help with the visualization of such a place.

It sounded spectacular. But. "I had a grandfather? When did he die? Or, or, I shouldn't have asked, I'm so - "

Tom's apology died in his throat as the man shook his head, "My father was old. His passing was peaceful. And, as for your question, he died on New Year's Eve in 1926."

"On the day I was born!" Tom blurted out before smothering his traitorous mouth with his hands.

"Ah, yes," his father mused, a strange, pleased and slight glint in his eyes, "Unfortunate, but true. Though I've a feeling it was meant to be, don't you?"

He shifted in his seat, considering the question, before finally deciding on, "I suppose so, sir."

Tom supposed it was meant to be. A life for a life, right? But hadn't his mother died when she had given birth to him? Wouldn't that have been enough to fill the debt?

Or was it some other, mysterious coincidence that lead both his mother and grandfather to die on the day he was born?

Who else, Tom wondered, died for him to live?

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong> I imagine Riddle Sr. would own a Duesenberg J. And also, the year is 1933, for anyone wondering.

In reality, adoption or a son and father meeting for the first time ever, would be even more awkward than this. Tom's just smart enough not to ask the wrong questions, or what he perceives as the wrong ones. And yes, as a child, he could potentially make the conclusion that his mother and grandfather died for him to live. Especially about his mother. And, um, this is likely going to be a very slow-moving and long story, since it will eventually end up during Harry Potter's time. I might not go through all of Tom's years at Hogwarts, but I'll at least do the first where he is a "muggleborn" sorted into Slytherin and the one where he finds the Chamber of Secrets.

Feedback is love.


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